


I'm the Greatest Star

by emef



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The world isn’t a detective novel, not really, but sometimes Joan’s new life seems to suggest that it is.</em> </p><p>Set in season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm the Greatest Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frangipani_flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani_flowers/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, frangipani_flowers! <3
> 
> Thanks to charloween for beta, and also apologies to A. for my failure to use the reindeer heist idea.

**I got 36 expressions**  
 _In which our hero is Joan Watson, ~~MD.~~_

 

"You're going to what?"

"It's called, sober companion."

"Aren't you kinda overqualified for something like that?" Oren sounds distracted.

Joan would tell her brother that most of the people in her sober companion training held just as many - if not more - diplomas as herself, but she is bound by confidentiality. If anything, she is underqualified, having never been an addict herself.

“No.”

"Huh. So what kind of salary are we talking, exactly?"

Everyone has their own take on her career move. Joan's mother couldn't speak for a full minute. She just sat down, and there was nothing but the sound of cars driving by. She didn’t even say anything about it after that, she just asked Joan whether she’d need new clothes, or a uniform.

The building manager for Joan’s apartment thought she was kidding. When she finally got through to him, though, he panicked, thinking addicts were going to be moving in with her. 

Emily was the worst, though, smiling at Joan in an indulgent way, like she fully expected this to be a phase Joan would grow out of.

 

**Instead of just kicking me why don't they give me a lift**  
 _In which our hero is Joan Watson, consulting detective’s apprentice._

 

Every other Wednesday, if there’s no case, Joan and Ms. Hudson go jogging together, and then sit down for tea.

"So I was thinking about sober companions,” Ms. Hudson says. “And, I hope I’m not overstepping, but I made a list of resources for you.”

She hands Joan a sheet of paper folded into quarters. The name ‘Joan’ is written in graceful letters on top. Joan reaches out to take it, but her hand stops in mid-air.

"Actually - I’ve decided to work with Sherlock. I won't be taking new companion contracts."

"Oh!" Ms. Hudson's smile is brilliant. "Then - then you'll be needing this."

She writes down a number.

"What's this?" Joan asks.

"This is for Olga. She does facials, cut, colour, wax, nails, and she does house calls any time." Ms. Hudson picks up her tea. "Consulting detectives have even worse schedules than surgeons, so."

"Oh my God, Ms. Hudson."

"Just tell her I sent you. She can even do personal shopping. She’s the one who buys Sherlock those socks.”

 

**'Cause they're scared that I got such a gift**  
 _In which truth is stranger than fiction._

 

Joan wakes up before her alarm clock every morning, and immerses herself into each new investigation. All their cases are radically different from one another, and every day is different and unexpected.

When a choreographer dies during a performance of _Funny Girl_ , Joan spends days at the theatre. She sits through the show three times - once from wings, once from the control booth, and once from the house.

_Who is the pip with piz-azz?_  
 _Who is all ginger and jazz?_  
 _Who is as glamorous as?_  
 _Who's an American Beauty rose_  
 _With an American Beauty nose,_  
 _And ten American Beauty toes,_  
 _Eyes on the target, and wham -_  
 _One shot, one gun shot and bam!_

A week into the investigation, the assistant director is found under the stage, not shot, but strangled with roller-skate laces. They shut down the performance, but it’s a long night. No one in the theatre is allowed to leave while the NYPD interrogates people, one by one.

The world isn’t a detective novel, not really, but sometimes Joan’s new life seems to suggest that it is. She is Joan Watson, Apprentice Detective. Carefully cooperating with police. Questioning witnesses and looking over evidence in a single bound. Giving medical opinions.

“WATSON!”

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“Perform an autopsy.”

“What, here? Now? No!”

“I know you are lacking some of the necessary instruments, but -”

“How many times am I going to tell you that examining a body in a lab, and examining a body in a crime scene, AREN’T THE SAME.”

 

**When you're gifted - then you're gifted**  
 _In which Joan Watson loves her job._

 

When she was fourteen years old, Joan had a teacher who taught cell biology like it was an action adventure story. Each part of the cell is legendary in its own way, he used to say. Mitochondria, small but mighty creators of energy. The Golgi apparatus packaging and processing life’s ingredients with its secret knowledge. The vacuoles, storing provisions for battle. He made the world seem enchanted.

That way of looking at the world heavily influenced Joan’s decision to apply to become a doctor. She knew that it made her mother happy, but she wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t already wanted to. The astonishing miracle of life was amazing to her, and she went through the worst parts of medical school - memorizing the names of hundreds of enzymes while dramatically sleep-deprived, putting up with creepily competitive colleagues, avoiding libidinous professors - with that sense of wonder to sustain her. There was a whole world inside the tiniest aspect of life. The road is unknown, science says, but there is an answer on the other end.

That’s what detective work is like. Jumbles of things all slowly slotting into place, making sense. And the best moments are when it feels like creative work - when Joan looks at all the evidence, at all the information she’s gathered, and she closes her eyes. Lets things get fuzzy. Forgets everything, and she just lets it come to her.

It feels like a ball of intuition coming to the surface. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, it feels magical.

 

**What are you, blind?**  
 _In which there is one too many second-guesses._

 

Emily, Joan’s purported best friend, stages an intervention over Joan’s second career change, and Joan thinks that’s the last she’s going to hear of it, she really does, until Detective Bell corners her at the station, next to the vending machines.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He’s holding a stack of paperwork from the Funny Girl case.

“Sorry?”

“Do you really know what you’re getting into, here, with Sherlock? Is the consulting detective business really… your thing?”

“Is there anything wrong with the work I’ve done for the precinct?”

He shakes his head. “No! No. You - you’re amazing. Other precincts dream of having people like you.”

“So…”

Bell’s eyes dart towards Captain Gregson’s office, where Sherlock can be seen, gesticulating wildly. “It’s none of my business, I know. Just seems like you’re the kind of person who’s destined for bigger and better things.”

“Thank you, Marcus. I’m fine, really.”

Joan takes two steps towards the coffee machine before changing her mind and turning around.

Actually you know what,” she says, "you’re right, it’s none of your business. I get that you are well-intentioned. But this conversation is not okay." She takes a calming breath. "I am grown woman and I make choices. Maybe I make unusual choices, but so what? My career isn’t something I choose to make other people comfortable. It’s what I choose because it’s what I want to do. ”

"You're right. I'm sorry, Joan."

"It's just," she says, smiling at him a bit, "I don't need your - or anyone's - approval or encouragement. But I think you should look past whatever you think a person like me should be doing, to see that I'm doing what I want."

 

**I'm the greatest star**  
 _In which Sherlock Holmes is himself._

 

There are quiet mornings in the brownstone. Mornings when the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the cold cases are intriguing. Sherlock and Watson sit on opposite ends of the sofa, and they look through old evidence files. Between them sits Clyde, chewing on lettuce.

“WATSON!”

“I’m right here.”

Sherlock blinks, surprised to see her so near. “Ah. I’m glad you’re here, Watson.”

Joan waits for the next part, but Sherlock seems to forget to finish telling her what’s on his mind.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I don’t want anything. I’m… only glad you’re here, Watson.”

“Oh.”

_I’m the greatest star_  
 _I am by far_  
 _but no one knows it_

Except Sherlock smiles, and Joan thinks: maybe _he_ knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus postcript drabble, courtesy of charloween's awesome brain!
> 
> Sherlock's first encounter with Olga's socks was akin to a stand-off. He stared at the open drawer, unusually focused on the many new pairs of socks, unable to either close the drawer and go barefoot or to find a way to evaluate which pair he should choose. In the end, he noticed his feet were cold so he closed his eyes and decided based on touch. It made more sense that way, really, since he'd have to feel the socks all day long on his feet.


End file.
